by Nicola Slade
Charlotte’s urgent further questioning brought no conclusion. Bessie was adamant that she had seen Miss Cole react in shock to the advent of Verena Chant and Sibella. She also insisted that she had witnessed either Miss Cole or Dr Chant do something – on this point she admitted to being unclear – to upset the pony outside the church gate. And no, it had not been possible to observe whether Miss Cole’s venomous glance in the cathedral had been aimed at both sisters or at one in particular. ‘It did seem to me that she recognised one or both of them,’ was all she would say as she took her leave.
It was likely, Charlotte thought, that Miss Cole’s distaste was reserved for Sibella. The woman must have known about the errant Armstrong brother’s betrayal and would probably extend her disapproval to the sister closer to his age.
After a brief visit to take some carrots and sugar lumps as a gift to the Rowan Lodge pony in his temporary lodging at the manor stables, Charlotte, her brows knitted in a thoughtful frown, trudged back to the house, remembering that the butler’s immense dignity made him take a dim view of the family lowering themselves in his eyes by using the back door. Accordingly, she took the long way round to the front of the manor, noting absently that while a snow-blanched landscape might be picturesque to behold, it was less delightful when you had to slip and slide on an icy path or find yourself drenched by a fall of snow from an overhanging branch. As she struggled to gain a foothold in some places, or reached out a hand to support herself by holding on to a branch, she tried to arrange her thoughts.
I wonder if Kit Knightley is correct, she sighed. Am I allowing silly fancies to run away with me? But Kit knows I am not prone to such flights and he also knows I’ve encountered a real mystery or two that could not possibly have been attributed to an over-active imagination. She shook her head in dismay and marshalled her anxieties.
Lady Granville had been adamant that someone had attempted to harm her son, firstly by pushing the throng of churchgoers so that Oz should have been the logical person to fall into the open grave, had he not been young and spry enough to slip out of the way. But why should anyone attempt such a thing? And what was it meant to achieve, in any case? Even if Oz had tumbled into the gaping hole, it was only six feet deep and the likelihood was that a young, healthy boy would have found it great sport to be covered in mud.
After that had come the incident with a mince pie. According to his mother, Oz had just reached out a hand for a pie when Captain Penbury barged in and snatched it up. Shortly following this act of greed, the captain had collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain; pain that was later put down to indigestion.
The spaniel was well enough, though dejected after his impromptu bath, so Charlotte brought him back to the house and shooed him into the drawing-room where Gran was drowsing by the fire.
Safely in her room, she shed her outer garments, tidied her hair and sat down to warm her toes at the bedroom fire. There had been no indication that Captain Penbury was suffering from anything but indigestion, so what had Lady Granville feared? Charlotte bit her lip. The only conclusion she could draw from the lady’s anxious whispers was that someone intended harm to her son. Did that mean she suspected poison?
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Charlotte leaped up from the low slipper chair and paced round the room, trying to make sense of it all. It was indigestion, Dr Perry said so. She paused to consider. Yes, he did, and I would, most emphatically, trust Dr Perry with my life.
Once the ridiculous notion had planted itself into her brain however, it refused to take itself off. She argued with herself, citing the nonsensical nature of such an idea, but was dismayed to realize that the fear remained. But if Lady Granville thought there might be poison in the mince pie, who could have put it there? She scowled at her reflection in the looking glass as she came up to it. And what about … the suspicion struck her with the force of a blow. The wassail cup! Lady Granville had been most strongly exercised over the theft, for such she had designated it, of the glass of hot punch she had marked out for her son.
Charlotte tried to picture the scene at the table in the manor dining-room. The boy had been there, of course, as had his mother. Was Lord Granville there too? In the background, perhaps. She went on with her exercise of enumerating those present. Dr Chant was in attendance and frowning at his wife about something and Miss Cole was certainly there, hovering alongside her employer, to that lady’s evident irritation. Who else? Charlotte had a sudden half-buried recollection of a little scene that had been played out, of Verena Chant laughing gaily and saying to her sister, something like, ‘Well, I certainly have no objection to the taste of cinnamon, my dear Sibella, in fact I am rather partial to it….’
Charlotte shivered in spite of the cosy warmth of her bedroom and she stared at the wall, her thoughts squirrelling round in her head as she suddenly had a clear picture of her stepfather telling one of his stories.
Will Glover, sitting on a barrel that served as a stool, table, and sometimes even a makeshift altar in that far away, long ago little township on the edge of the Bush; Will causing the ladies present to shiver deliciously as his voice sank to a whisper….
‘It was when I was serving as secretary to the Bishop of – oh, well,’ there had been a gurgle of laughter in his voice, ‘Perhaps you’d be better off not knowing which bishop it was.’ That was said with a suspicion of a wink that thrilled his audience into a hushed silence. ‘Where was I? Oh yes; well, I had been at his lordship’s palace for a week or so and I started to wonder how it came about that there were so many dead cats around the place? I spotted one in the drawing-room, poor creature, while another was stretched out dead as a doornail in the Library, and a third that had breathed its last in the morning-room. When a fourth cat turned up in the Bishop’s bedroom, though luckily his lordship had not yet retired so was unaware of the tragedy, I set about investigating.’
Charlotte paused in her anxious pacing round the room. Will’s voice rang so clearly in her ears that it seemed unthinkable, unbearable, that she should never see him again. She banished that thought; no time for tears she reminded herself. Will had squeezed his wife’s hand and caught his stepdaughter’s eye across the bevy of breathless townswomen who were hanging on his every word and with the smile that won all hearts – and, she reminded herself – emptied the contents of all pockets into his own, he had explained. ‘It transpired,’ he said, ‘that the new cook was a fanatical free-thinker and had determined to rid the world of all clerics, one by one, beginning with my bishop. However, he apparently had small faith in his ability as a poisoner, so he set about practising on the resident cats. Hence the pitiful corpses that littered the premises.’
The old memory made her wonder. Was it possible that Lady Granville was correct in her suspicions? Could someone have poisoned a glass of hot punch, intending it for the Granville boy, only to see his or her intention thwarted by Verena Chant’s partiality to the taste of cinnamon?
But they said, didn’t they … that poison was a woman’s weapon? Charlotte found herself staring blindly out at the snowy garden while she thought furiously. Bessie Railton’s testimony pointed to Miss Cole as the culprit, but culpable of what, precisely? Frightening an old pony? Trying to poison a child?
It was all too ridiculous, but a frown creased her brow. Miss Cole had appeared so opportunely on the scene where Lady Granville’s maid lay so inexplicably dead. Inexplicably, that is, if Oz were correct in his insistence that he had heard no sound of a scuffle, seen no sight of a killer running off. Could there be a connection with that crime and with the death of a visitor to the manor?
Charlotte was almost thankful to hear the bell summoning the household to a cold collation in the dining-room, to stay the pangs of hunger until the tea party they were to attend in honour of Oz’s birthday later that afternoon.
As she went slowly down the main staircase, with its fearsome array of weaponry and festoons of evergreens, holly and ivy, a great bunch of mistletoe hanging from the chandelier, Charl
otte was unable to dismiss the memory of the Finchbourne wassail cup. She pictured Barnard proudly brandishing an ornate silver ladle and Lily beside him, beaming with pride at her houseful of important guests. There was the wassail brew itself, a concoction of heated wine and sugar, flavoured with a variety of spices and with fruit floating on the top.
Did that mean that the wassail punch had been tampered with? She frowned again, fiercely, and tried to dismiss the only conclusion that made any sense. If indeed anything made sense, she added as a silent rider.
It was possible. She would only admit to a possibility, nothing more, that some person unknown had managed to slip a dose of poison into the glass of punch intended for Oz Granville. And if that were true – if there were any possibility, however slight, that it could be true – then Charlotte Richmond would be very, very angry.
Chapter 11
THERE WAS TO be no respite for Charlotte after the meal. Today she was clearly doomed to be the recipient of intimate exchanges, but as it was Sibella Armstrong who came to sit timidly beside her with a confiding air, it would be interesting, she concluded, rather than tedious.
In spite of the usual gargantuan breakfast that was served every morning at the manor and the promise of another, almost certainly large meal at Brambrook Abbey during the coming afternoon, Lily had insisted upon providing her household with more sustenance at midday. Knowing the impossibility of persuading Lily that she was not hungry, Charlotte nibbled at a slice of bread and butter and, refusing Barnard’s offer of a glass of wine, a brandy to keep out the cold, a tankard of ale (this last suggestion accompanied by a hearty laugh), she allowed Lily to pour her a cup of tea instead.
‘Did you hear the news, by the way, Char?’ Lily suddenly asked when her guests were all supplied with food and drink. ‘Young Oz mentioned to Barnard that Lady Granville’s companion, that rather tiresome Miss Cole, has unaccountably taken it into her head to hand in her notice and take herself off to some friend’s house somewhere in London.’
‘What’s that?’ Charlotte raised her head in surprise and carefully put down her cup of tea. ‘How extraordinary! I was under the impression that Miss Cole had been a permanent fixture in Lady Granville’s household for many years, that in fact she is some kind of distant relative of her ladyship? What in the world can have possessed her to take such an unexpected course? Do you suppose there’s been some kind of quarrel and that Lady Granville might rather have dismissed her companion?’
‘I believe not,’ Barnard took up the story, reaching for a large slab of Christmas cake to sustain him for another hour or two. ‘Young Oz was most definite. He told me that his mother was in a fine taking late last evening when she discovered that Miss Cole had packed up her bags and taken herself off without so much as a by your leave. Apparently, her ladyship was not disturbed when her companion failed to appear at dinner, because Miss Cole had complained of some trifling indisposition – which was quite a frequent occurrence, Oz remarked.’
‘Indeed,’ burst in Lily. ‘It turns out that Miss Cole left a short, ungracious note to her ladyship, and will send for her trunk as soon as her circumstances allow.’ Lily shook her head, her round pink face reflecting excitement mingled with sympathy. ‘Imagine! According to her note, Miss Cole has received an extremely advantageous offer of a position with a former employer who now resides just outside Paris. The wretched woman means to stay in London for a day or so and then journey across the channel. I believe Miss Cole has been in her ladyship’s service for getting on for eleven or twelve years. What shocking ingratitude to leave so precipitately, particularly as her ladyship’s personal maid – well,’ Lily spoke in a suitably hushed voice and glanced rather theatrically round the room with a shiver, ‘we all know what happened to her, do we not? This means that poor Lady Granville is left without a familiar attendant.’
Charlotte made sympathetic noises and returned to her cup of tea, wondering what it could all mean. No explanation sprang to mind however, apart from the ludicrous fancies that had occupied her earlier, so she made her apologies. With a mischievous nod to Barnard, she whisked the last piece of Christmas cake from under his nose and put it on her plate to take it up to her room on the pretext of resting before the proposed birthday festivities.
She still had some silver tissue paper left over from wrapping her Christmas presents so she made a neat parcel of the pocket knife for Oz. Tying an elegant bow in the half-yard of blue silk ribbon from her sewing box, she placed the birthday present on a small table, beside her gloves. She added the small kid reticule that contained a lace handkerchief, her embroidery scissors, needle-case, and some sewing silk, along with some pins for use in emergency repairs, so that there was no possibility of forgetting it, then she curled up in the fireside chair with her present from Barnard open on her lap.
‘It’s the latest edition of Bradshaw,’ Barnard had told her, laughing at her puzzled expression as she surveyed the book she had just unwrapped. ‘Railway timetables, Char, so you can plan your journeys when you feel the need to run away from us now and then!’
Dear Barnard, she smiled as she flicked through the printed pages. I could never hurt his feelings by running away; he knows that’s not going to happen, even though…. She bit her lip and her eyes darkened at the knowledge of the undoubted sorrow that waited just around the corner. When Elaine Knightley finally took her leave of her beloved husband and home, Charlotte would not be the only friend to feel bereft; Elaine, quiet and gentle as she was, held a special place in the hearts of gentry and villagers alike.
‘I can’t bear to think…’ Charlotte was unaware that she spoke aloud but a timid tapping at the door brought a welcome interruption to her darkling thoughts. Sibella Armstrong, dressed in readiness for the impending jollification, hovered there, poised for flight.
‘Sibella?’ Charlotte brushed a hand across her tear-stained cheeks, and stood aside to let her visitor enter. ‘Do come in, you’re just in time to distract me from some unhappy thoughts.’
Another tap at the door heralded a maid with a tray of tea. ‘Mr Hoxton had Cook prepare this for you, Miss Char. He said it was a bitter cold day and he thought a young lady from foreign parts, where the weather’s always hot, might feel a chill.’ She set the tray down on the table beside Charlotte’s gloves and Oz’s present, and looked up at the two girls. ‘I’ve brought tea for Miss Armstrong too,’ she said, with a nod to the second teapot and cup on the tray. ‘I saw you come in here, miss; will you take tea together?’ The small flurry – thanking the maid, settling Sibella in a comfortable chair, pouring the tea – broke the ice and they both drank eagerly, warming their hands on the delicate, flower-patterned china of Lily’s second-best tea set. Charlotte dismissed her visitor’s polite concern regarding those miserable thoughts and the accompanying tears, and waited in a comfortable silence, wondering what had brought Sibella to her room once more.
‘I am in a quandary, Mrs… er, Charlotte,’ began the other. ‘You have been so kind, I thought you might help me decide what to do.’
At Charlotte’s eager assurance, Sibella continued. ‘My brother-in-law, Dr Chant, suggests I accompany him to London when he leaves Hampshire in a day or two. He has numerous acquaintances in the capital and he tells me he is confident of securing a suitable post for me.’
‘And?’ prompted Charlotte. ‘Forgive me, Sibella, but I’ve formed the distinct impression that you hold no warm regard for Dr Chant, nor he for you. Do you really wish to be beholden to him?’
‘Ah, you do understand.’ Sibella turned eagerly to her hostess, ‘and you are quite correct, I’ve never liked him and I know he has decided views on the subject of poor relations, so I can’t understand why he has come forward with this offer.’
‘I can guess,’ Charlotte gave a slight smile. ‘I spotted the doctor closeted with my brother-in-law and knowing Barnard as I do, I can imagine that he said something rather fierce about family obligations. I don’t mean,’ she added hastily, ‘that Barna
rd and Lily want you to go. By no means, in fact I’m persuaded Lily would like you to remain at the manor until her little Algy is old enough to require a governess!’ She smiled. ‘That being rather impractical however, I know that they really want you to stay here for as long as you wish and certainly until you have somewhere comfortable to go, among congenial people.’
Sibella started to protest but Charlotte interrupted, ‘It would be a kindness to them,’ she said soberly. ‘I know they both feel it dreadfully that Mrs Chant was taken ill after her visit to this house, and yes – they realize that no possible fault can be laid at their door – but they feel it nonetheless. That being the case, may I join with them in entreating you to prolong your visit? It must be preferable than having to be forced to express gratitude to a man you cannot like.’ She hesitated for a moment, then rushed on, ‘I … it is a trifle premature to mention this,’ she said, glancing at the other girl. ‘I don’t know if you recall what I said at breakfast? That Miss Nightingale has offered me a post in connection with her proposed new nursing order? Well, as I told Barnard and Lily, I have no intention of accepting her offer but I’ve not yet had the opportunity to reply and I wondered how you would look upon the idea of allowing me to put your name forward for the position? No,’ she interrupted Sibella’s exclamation, ‘hear me out before you dismiss it out of hand. The position does not involve any nursing; it is an administrative post, which requires a clear head, a practical turn of mind, and a good deal of common sense. All three of these qualities are surely yours, after years as a governess.’